Man Slaughter
by OyNebach42
Summary: I didn't mean to do it," he stammered, "I swear to G-d I didn't!" My take on Zigzag's arrest. Rated for violence. One shot. Read, and Reiview.


I haven't written anything for the Holes fandom in a while, I miss it. Being bogged down by chapter stories and barely able to keep afloat, I decided to do a one shot. The beginning mentions references to an OC from my story, 'The Framing of Magnet', which I am currently in the process of writing a sequel for, if I can ever get it off the ground. Below is my take on Zigzag's arrest. Read, review and enjoy!- OyNebach42

Man Slaughter 

Magnet and Kay sat side by side in the cafeteria, due to class reshuffling; lunch was the only time they had together. It was the very start of the school year, and naturally the topic of their conversation drifted to the new classes both were taking.

"So, what do you think of Civics?" Kay wanted to know, "Everyone in my class thinks it's like Chinese."

Magnet shrugged, "what I've noticed of it isn't bad, I sit next to Zigzag," He explained, "We have some pretty interesting discussions."

Kay smiled, "tell me about it, Ricky's in my English class. Last week, we all had to write essays on capital punishment, his was very heated."

"Yeah," the other let out a sigh, "you know, it's easy to think about the electric chair, and lethal injections when you just see it on T.V., but when you're the one sitting in the defendant's seat… You start to see things differently."

There was silence between them for a moment, and then Kay asked slowly, hesitantly, "is it true? Did he really murder someone?"

"The courts said it was man slaughter- I think it was too. Zigzag may be strange, but I can't picture him killing anyone- Not intentionally anyway. It's like that sometimes; stuff just happens that you can't do anything about. Ziggy had his problems like everyone else; he served his time, so now he's good."

_Now he's good………….._

Ricky pulled the black ski mask over his head, but left it bunched above his cheeks so he could get another drag of cocaine. He let out a puff of smoke slowly, relishing the relaxed, pleasant feeling that spread over him.

Everything was cool, he could do this.

He drew the silver pistol from his pocket, and took another drag.

'Ah, that was better,' His hands stopped shaking.

Ricky grinned to himself, he could do this.

Darkness concealed him as he stood near the back of a gas station. It was late night, not a soul stirred. A tiny cricket chirped beside his boot, and the bright neon sign near the highway creaked as it swayed in the breeze. A small motorcycle stood beside Ricky, his get away car.

He inhaled deeply from his cigarette, it had grown dangerously small, and he let it fall to the ground before it could singe his fingers. Regretfully he watched the white paper burn at his feet along with the miniscule twist of crack he knew would be caught in it. Only then did he finish pulling on the ski mask.

'Waste of money,' he found himself thinking, still staring at his smoke. He had to pay through the nose to get that stuff, realizing that even a small amount was being lost to the sidewalk pained Ricky. That was his last leaf. There would be no more highs until he got some dough.

Ricky tightened his hold on the gun. The money was not long in coming.

Softly, silently, though there was no one to hear, he slipped to the front of the building. Inside the giant glass window, an older man could be seen standing behind the cash register, polishing a picture frame.

Ricky took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders confidently, and flung himself against the building's glass door. It opened with a bang.

The old man looked up, surprised. He stared at the gun, then at Ricky's face. "Can I help you, young man?"

Though slightly taken aback, it only took a moment for Ricky react. "Give me your money!' He ordered, raising his gun and taking a step closer to the counter.

The man sighed, "very well," The cash register opened with a bang. "Paper or plastic?" He inquired pointing to each past respectively.

"Just give it to me!" Ricky thundered, from clenched teeth.

The old man ripped a plastic sack from the wall, and began shoving bills into it. Ricky scanned the story warily; a long black security camera stared at him, its one eye open and gaping. A few feet to his left a package of powdered doughnuts sat. Beneath him, the youth felt his stomach growl.

Smoking always gave him an appetite, and made him want to chew and eat something. Keeping an untrusting eye on the old man, he edged over to the shelf and reached out with is free hand for the donuts, and snagged a can of peas by mistake.

He looked at it for a moment. A smiling pea pod grinned at him, small beady eyes seeing all, white smile mocking him. Angrily, Ricky flung it towards the counter, where it hit something loudly.

Then he picked up the donuts then, hunger making him forget the man he was holding at gun point. He ripped open the package, stuffing the powdered food into his mouth. He chewed a whole donut to pulp in seconds, and then swallowed it harshly, scraping his throat.

He remembered his hostage then and asked, "What's taking that money so long?" When no reply came he looked up.

The old man was slumped against the cash register, the back of his head covered in blood.

"Oh curd!" Ricky exclaimed running to him. "Oh crud!" He shook the man's shoulder's, "Hey, hey!"

The body fell against his chest, limp and lifeless.

"Oh G-d!" Ricky breathed, "letting the dead man sink to the floor. He backed away from the body, eyes wide and unbelieving. He nearly stumbled upon something hard and round, barely able to in time he managed to grasp the edge of the counter before slipping. He looked down. The pea pod grinned up at him, the can's rim covered in blood.

"Oh, no!"

He felt numbed. Unsure of what to do, he ripped the ski mask from his face and searched his pocket for a joint, there was none.

A small telephone hung on the wall by his shoulder. He picked the receiver up and began dialing nine-one-one, then stopped. The old man was dead; there was nothing a doctor could do for him.

What should he do? If someone came in now, they would think that Ricky had murdered the old man… He could go to prison… He could be sent to the eclectic chair.

He had to get out…. Get as far away from this gas station as he could. Sweat began to streak down his forehead. He cast a glance at the sack of money, splattered with the old man's blood. He could feel his throat getting tighter, his breath shallow.

Rick turned and ran right into the huge chest of a truck driver.

"Hey boy," the man drawled, grapping the youth's arm, "what's your hurry?"

Ricky swallowed shakily, "I didn't do it!" He stammered, "I swear to G-d I didn't!"

The truck driver looked at him in confusion, and then noticed the gun poised in Ricky's hand and the blood stained counter. "Heck!" He exclaimed, "You drop that gun boy, you drop it now!"

Mutely, Ricky obeyed. The truck driver picked up the weapon and told Ricky to sit down by the phone. He did so, body quaking all the while. He had killed a man…. Gasping for breath, Ricky sank to his knees. Bile rose in his throat. Oh crud, he'd killed a man. He listened half consciously as the trucker called the police and explained how the teller was dead, and he'd found a boy with a gun.

Ricky vomited all over the bloody can of peas.

Sirens sounded. Four policemen burst into the room, guns drawn. They drug Ricky to his feet and handcuffed him, while one of the officers began telling him his rights. "You have a right to remain silent, anything you say can, and will be used against you in a court of law."

Court? Law? The youth's legs threatened to give way beneath him. Paramedics had arrived and were putting the body on a stretcher.

Ricky's head swam. He leaned against one of the officers, before vomiting and crumbling to the floor. There wasn't much left in him to vomit. Stomach acids, tainted with a small amount of donut streaked down his shirt.

"They usually do that the first time," a cop muttered, "that's how you can tell the first time murderers, after a while though, they get used to it."

Used to it?! Could he truly grow to a point were his breath would come ever, his knees stand stiff beneath him, and the bile stop rising in his mouth when he thought of that blood stained can?

Hash coughs racked his frame.

He wished he had a joint, he wished he would wake up to find this all just a horrible dream. He didn't. He never would. That night, Ricky was thrown onto a different track, one where he was just a little too zany, the rest of the world, a little too serious.

Ricky never ate peas again.


End file.
